A pilgrim through this lonely world,
The blessed Savior passed;
A mourner all his life was he,
A dying Lamb at last

2 That tender heart which felt for all,
For us its life-blood gave;
It found on earth no resting-place.
Save only in the grave.

3 Such was our Lord; and shall we fear
The cross with all its scorn?
Or love a faithless, evil world
That wreathed his brow with thorn?

4 No, facing all its frowns or smiles,
Like him obedient still,
We homeward press, through storm or calm,
To Zion's blessed hill.

H. Bonar.